


You'd Be So Nice to Come Home To

by sigo



Category: Man and Boy - Rattigan, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy, The Little Stranger (2018)
Genre: 1950s, 69 (Sex Position), Blow Jobs, Come Eating, Come Shot, Come Swallowing, Couch Cuddles, Couch Sex, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Nipple Licking, Nipple Play, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Smoking, Suburbia, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, graphic warning: come and mustache combination, lewd use of mustache
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:15:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29347242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sigo/pseuds/sigo
Summary: Basil stirs on Faraday’s chest, sitting up enough to lock eyes with him. His dark hair is wild, curls framing his face above his prominent ears.  “Getting late,” he says, voice on the edge of a yawn. “You on duty tomorrow, Doc?”“Day off,” Faraday answers. If Basil were any more muscular than he is, or if there was anything more to Faraday’s body than what’s required to have one, the two of them wouldn’t fit on the couch together like this. As they are, the fit is perfect. Cozy. Basil pulls Faraday’s dressing gown open, thumbing his right nipple lightly. It pebbles up underneath the stimulus, and Faraday makes a small noise around his cigarette on his next exhale.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Armitage Hux/Kylo Ren, Basil Anthony/Dr Faraday (The Little Stranger)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 36





	You'd Be So Nice to Come Home To

**Author's Note:**

> Incapable of thinking of anything but basilday. Join me. Not beta'd, if I catch a mistake later the psychic damage my shadow self takes will set my house on fire.

The sky is pitch black outside, the only sounds coming through the screen door the rustling of verdant summer leaves and the melodic trilling of insects. Faraday has not yet adjusted to the volume of noise insects make in the New York summer outside the city. It’s as though the little beasts are competing with the distant clamor of the boroughs that Faraday and Basil Anthony have left behind.

They moved at the start of the summer so that Faraday wouldn’t need to fret over a missed job opportunity, and summer is growing late now. There’s a chill in the air when the wind blows some nights. Faraday’s drink is going watery on the coffee table, but he’d have to shift Basil to retrieve it. He looks at the short glass sweating onto the newsprint he’s used as a coaster, ice clinking minutely inside as the ceiling fan above — cranked to the highest setting — ripples the surface of the amber liquid. Summer in America still feels alien to Faraday. It’s louder, and brighter somehow. Aggressive and dazzling, like the fireworks display Basil insisted on in July. As nerve-frying as it is beautiful. The lake country has been calmer than the city at least. Faraday is slightly miffed with himself for preferring it, truly. He’d fancied himself more than a country boy. And he knows Basil misses Greenwich Village, though Basil hasn’t said so. Faraday’s wages at his new post are enough to support the both of them, but Basil needs enrichment. Faraday’s been meaning to suggest that Basil go round to the lakeshore’s host of restaurants and bars and see whether any of them have a piano, but he’s been waiting for the right moment to broach the subject. Basil can be touchy about music.

That was how they met; or rather how their meeting had progressed any further than simple acquaintance. Basil had sidled up next to Faraday between sets at a Lower Manhattan joint and asked him if he had any song requests, listing the popular ones with a cheeky roll of his eyes -  _ How High the Moon, Mr. Sandman? _

Faraday had needed to lean in close so that Basil could hear his request, speaking it into the oversized shell of Basil’s ear, and Basil had pulled away with those brown eyes wide.  _ That’s one of my favorites, actually. You got it _ . And he had winked, and played it, and Faraday stayed til the music quit. Basil lit up a smoke out in the courtyard with him after the club closed. Basil’s cigarette was home-rolled and smelled of weed, which Faraday had always thought he disliked. He found he didn’t mind it from Basil. They had talked into the early hours in that shadowed place, the sounds of passerby echoing in through the alley. Despite the relative lack of privacy Faraday was over the moon when he finally checked his watch and lamented the hour, and Basil gave him a chaste kiss goodbye.  _ I think I could love you, you know _ , Basil had said when they parted far too soon.

He’d put it out there in the open, so casually. Love. Faraday didn’t think he’d uttered that word once even to Caroline. He would learn in the coming months that Basil was full of love. It poured out of him sometimes, so that he didn’t drown in it. He loved to the point of hurting, agonizing over the lives of people he would never meet. Getting hot under the collar about the workings of the world, about which gears turned which way and who got crushed underneath. And Basil loved Faraday with that same fervor. It was hard for Faraday to hold the shape of Basil’s love in his mind, but the fact of it was so apparent that denying it even to himself was akin to calling the sky green.

Basil is snoozing now, in their new home upstate, layered shirtless atop Faraday and then the green couch like three layers in a cake. They’d told the realtor that Basil was a medical student to explain away the two of them living together. Perhaps the fellow believed it and perhaps not. The very night that they’d moved in Basil had Faraday on the kitchen island counter. That was the way that Faraday recalled it more often than not — being  _ had _ , nursed and then drained like an expensive cocktail under muted and smoky lighting. Basil savored him. And as Faraday whimpered under his ministrations that night, the teal kitchen tile cold under his skin, Basil had said it again for the hundredth time — _ I love you _ . And for the first time, delirious with emotion from the move and everything that led up to it and everything that would come of it spooling unknowably out into the future, Faraday said it back.

Peering down his nose at Basil drooling onto the chest of his plaid dressing gown, Faraday feels the tell-tale pang of love around his heart. He feels that he’s made a mistake speaking it aloud. Surely some higher power will have overheard and work to correct course now, ripping Faraday away from this undeserved happiness. The exact implications of Basil Anthony are too much for Faraday to contemplate without finishing his drink, or lighting up a cigarette, and he can do neither with a sleeping Basil’s dead weight on him.

Faraday listens to the trees and the night-bugs  _ outside _ the little ranch house, and the fan and the living-room clock ticking and the occasional clink of his melting ice  _ inside _ the little ranch house with its brick siding out front and little garden that neither of them are much good at caring for. He listens to Basil’s breathing. It hitches into a snore every few minutes, which Faraday can’t convince himself to find irritating. The screen door out into the backyard and then the thick woods beyond is uncovered, but the rest of the windows have the curtains drawn tight, making the house into a cavern of sorts. Avoiding prying eyes is more important in a smaller community.

Basil stirs on Faraday’s chest, sitting up enough to lock eyes with him. His dark hair is wild, curls framing his face above his prominent ears. The ear he was laying on is pink. “Getting late,” he says, voice on the edge of a yawn. “You on duty tomorrow, Doc?”

“Day off,” Faraday answers, taking the opportunity to sit up -- one hand cradling Basil’s neck so that he will not crawl away in an attempt to be helpful -- and grasp at the pack of cigarettes next to his watered-down whiskey. He lights up and settles back down after dragging the ashtray to the edge of the table. Basil hums, pushing himself up to lie on his side next to Faraday, one hand resting with pleasant heaviness on Faraday’s chest. If Basil were any more muscular than he is, or if there was anything more to Faraday’s body than what’s required to have one, the two of them wouldn’t fit on the couch together like this. As they are, the fit is perfect. Cozy.

“We haven’t made plans. Do you want to go out for a drive?”

“Mm,” Faraday says noncommittally. Of the two of them, Faraday’s the driver. He feels a bit guilty not wanting to, since Basil doesn’t get out near as much these days, not all the way to town. At least they’re a walking distance from the lake’s establishments.

Basil pulls Faraday’s dressing gown open, thumbing his right nipple lightly. It pebbles up underneath the stimulus, and Faraday makes a small noise around his cigarette on his next exhale. For a while neither says anything. They lay together, smoke curling up from Faraday’s mouth under the low light of the one living room lamp. Basil doesn’t cease rubbing circles around Faraday’s nipple with the warm pad of his thumb, and molten heat starts to curl in the pit of Faraday’s belly. When he swallows, it's rough.

“Really, you’re insatiable. Ready again so soon?” Faraday teases.

“We haven’t.”

“We have,” Inhale nicotine, exhale smoke. “This morning.”

“That’s a lifetime ago.”

“For you.”

“Even for an old man like you. Thirteen hours. How many emergencies did you stop in the meantime?”

“Mm. Slow day. A handful of summer colds and two referrals out. Cancer, likely.” Basil’s hand stops. Faraday takes another drag and blows it out quick. “Sorry. What a mood killer.”

“If you don’t want to….”

Faraday looks at Basil out of the corner of his eyes, face turned partially away to tip his cigarette into the ashtray. Carnival glass, a gift from Carol. “I didn’t say that--” Faraday finds himself pulled back and enveloped before he can stub out his cigarette properly. He laughs quietly into Basil’s mouth, those plush lips soft and warm and needy against his. Basil’s thumb resumes its path around and over Faraday’s right nipple, keeping the little pink bud perky and flushed. It seems ludicrous that a chest as undeveloped and flat as Faraday’s should be so sensitive, but it is. Basil picked up on that quickly, as he does with most things. Faraday hadn’t known it about himself, having kept his own masturburtory sessions focused on the lower parts of his body, and not having undressed fully with a partner before. His sexual encounters had been brief, trousers dropped and shirt and vest rucked up, no kissing. Often no names. Before Basil. Basil with his large, dexterous hands and his sinful mouth. Faraday had always thought his own sex appeal lay in what was missing from him -- past conquests were prone to moaning gibberish about how skinny he was, how tiny he looked skewered on their cocks. Basil, in contrast, groped until he found the softer parts of Faraday -- his ass, his hips, the scant layer of fat on his lower stomach -- and then made a habit of squeezing and massaging those parts. Feeling him up as one would a curvy heroine in a spy picture. Faraday felt acutely that he oughtn’t like it as much as he did.

Basil pulls away from Faraday’s kisses now, dipping his head to nuzzle Faraday’s robe all the way open across his chest, damp lips moving over his other nipple, and the unhurried arousal that’s been building up in Faraday just from smelling and touching Basil after a long day stirs in earnest. His cock throbs, beginning to fill with blood and thicken. He imagines laying here with Basil all night and the next day through, not even stopping to eat. Just lazily drawing pleasure out of one another as the neighbors mow their lawns and tow their sailboats down to the docks. It’s a bit monstrous, this impulse. To keep Basil as a pet, leaving and coming back to him in accordance with Faraday’s schedule alone. It can’t last. But like all summer habits, it feels as though it will. Like the leaves outside will never fall and neither of them will ever need to get up for a glass of water from the tap, and life will go on unchanged forever. This moment, preserved in a bubble of warmth and reflected light.

Basil presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to Faraday’s left nipple, flicking his tongue over it just as he slides his thumb across the other, and Faraday moans, hips twitching up in search of friction. Basil murmurs something against Faraday’s skin, his breath hot, and he’s mouthing at Faraday’s nipple again before Faraday processes what he’s said --  _ So beautiful, baby _ . Faraday resists the urge to palm himself through the fabric of his dressing gown, wanting this to last. He swears under his breath, the sound loud in the quiet of the room, and closes his eyes to focus on the sensation of Basil’s lips and tongue teasing him. He feels Basil’s weight shift on the couch cushions as Basil bends over him, his knees planted on either side of Faraday’s thighs. He’s wearing white sporting shorts -- he’d tried to coax Faraday into buying a pair of the ridiculous things, cut high up on the full muscle of his thighs, and to wear  _ in public _ \-- and Faraday opens his eyes to admire the bulge tenting the crotch of those shorts out above his tanned legs. Basil peels Faraday’s robe open, untying the sash to reveal his blue check boxers beneath, his own arousal obvious now too, his pale stomach exposed. Faraday flushes. He can feel his face and chest heating with it.

“I thought about you all day,” Basil says, voice low. “I was writing.” Music, he means. Basil’s been using the time he’d have reserved for playing gigs in the city to develop original compositions. Faraday is looking up at Basil, trapped where he lays by the bulk of his lover’s body, but of the two of them it is Basil’s expression that’s vulnerable. Before Faraday can comment, Basil shifts his knees and leans back down, lowering his face to Faraday’s chest. Basil’s mouth is searing hot and slick. He sucks kisses onto Faraday’s burning skin, and Faraday groans, cockhead leaking pre-ejaculate through the cotton it's straining against.

“Christ,” Faraday mutters. He’s never been a religious man, but the single syllable sounds almost more like worship than curse as Basil  _ sucks _ at his nipple. Faraday lets his head loll back onto the armrest and then to the side, looking out into the room. The ice in his drink is gone. The man in the mirror on the opposite wall locks eyes with him, both their faces red and shiny with perspiration, both their sets of green eyes blown dark with lust beneath copper lashes catching the light of the lamp. Basil pulls off with an obscene sound and licks over to the other nipple, letting Faraday wind pale fingers through his black curls, cradling him while he repeats his motions on the second nipple now. His lips are soft around the sensitive peak, his tongue velvet heat, and then he gently tugs on Faraday’s nipple with his  _ teeth _ . Faraday whines and throws an arm over his eyes, unsure whether he does it because he doesn’t want to watch his twin in the mirror any longer, or to be watched. His cock throbs, aching, and he ruts it up against Basil’s firm stomach, wishing desperately that he was undressed enough to press skin on skin.

“What do you want?” Basil asks, giving Faraday’s right nipple a parting lick, and the earnestness in his voice makes Faraday feel more aroused than vulgarity ever could.

“I don’t know, darling,” Faraday says. He uncovers his eyes to look at Basil’s sweet face. The room smells of their combined sweat and tobacco. Faraday’s cigarette is still lit, blue smoke whorling up from the glowing cherry toward the ceiling.

“Can I suck you?”

“Please.”

Basil grins, flashing his crooked white teeth at Faraday. It makes him look younger than he is. Boyish. Faraday feels Basil’s hands tug his boxers open and down past his knees. He kicks them off and spreads his legs for Basil to settle between them, hissing in relief as his erection is freed. Basil makes a desperate moan of  _ want _ looking down at him that goes right to Faraday’s groin. Faraday stares down at him, not wanting to miss a second as Basil takes his flushed and leaking cock into his mouth. Faraday knows he’s not well-endowed, falling just short of average as defined by medical observation, but he never feels inadequate with Basil. Basil licks long, broad stripes up him from root to head, saliva running down his balls to dampen the ginger hair there. Faraday pulses against his tongue. Determined to tease, Basil dips down lower, wiggling his hands under Faraday, palming his ass to roll his hips up enough to get at his hole, circling his tongue there and then pointing it to push inwards. It’s deliciously filthy. Basil can’t be dissuaded from this particular activity no matter how much Faraday lectures him about cleanliness and tries to confine it to just after a bath. Basil’s not trying to open Faraday up now, just reveling in him, licking into him almost hungrily, his tongue hot and slick and electric.

“Unh, fuck...oh, fuck,” Faraday gasps, voice tight. He’s breathing hard. He knows what he wants, and feels almost foolish for not requesting it right away. “Let’s… Dear, let me--” He’s babbling, but Basil knows. Deftly, Basil licks his way up from Faraday’s hole, over his balls and up his cock once more, sucking on the head briefly before he moves out of the way and helps Faraday haul himself into position. Basil’s tented-out shorts face Faraday now, and Faraday unbuttons them and pushes Basil’s shorts and underwear down. His flushed cock bobs in front of Faraday’s face as Basil swallows Faraday back down again. Faraday licks his lips before opening his mouth and guiding Basil in, one hand on Basil’s hip. ‘Big’ does not accurately describe Basil. He’s girthy, stretching Faraday’s mouth open and sliding heavy and blunt on his tongue to the back of his throat.

Faraday starts a hitching rhythm, utterly distracted by the heat and suction of Basil’s mouth around him. This has always been a favorite of theirs -- performance holds little appeal measured against the sweetness of mutual pleasure, doled out and received in an intimate, immediate cycle. Basil curls his tongue around Faraday’s cockhead and Faraday pulls back to repeat the motion on Basil, sucking the tip after and feeling Basil follow his lead an instant later. They work together without speaking in this way, Faraday struggling to take all of Basil’s length down his throat the way Basil does for him, making up for the difference by stroking the shaft with a hand. Basil’s moaning around him, the vibration so good it calls up a matching sound in Faraday. His muscles tighten, one leg trembling as sparkling champagne-bubble tension builds at the center of his arousal, climax imminent. Basil can tell, his huge hands pawing at the muscle of Faraday’s backside while he takes Faraday’s cock into his mouth to the hilt and sucks on his way up. Faraday can’t pull off of Basil in time to warn him, spilling into his mouth with a stifled moan. Basil sucks him through it, swallowing twice, and then releases Faraday’s softening member.

“Oh, Faraday,” Basil says softly, equal parts awe and pleasure. He thrusts forward frantically, chasing his own release. Faraday tries to hold still, suppressing his gag reflex to let Basil down his throat, his jaw aching from opening so wide. Basil grunts when he comes, the sort of sound he might also make if Faraday punched him in the gut. He comes on the backstroke of his thrusting and twitches so that the head of his cock hits the corner of Faraday’s mouth, semen flooding up over his cheek and dripping down onto his lips and mustache. Basil rocks himself against Faraday’s face once, twice, painting him thoroughly. Then Basil lifts his head and looks at him, his eyes unfocused and burning like dark coals. Faraday shuts his own eyes. It’s too much. Basil is without a doubt the best fuck of Faraday’s life, and Faraday would be nursing amorous wounds on Basil’s behalf even if Basil never looked at him like  _ that _ . Like Faraday’s hung the goddamned moon and the stars in the sky, even all pink and disheveled and sporting an impressive load of Basil’s jizz on his face.

“I’m sorry,” Basil says. He’s breathing hard. He clears his throat and begins again. “Faraday...shit, come here. I’ve made a mess of you.” Basil is tugging on his shoulder, his palms hot and sweaty. His baritone voice is low enough to make Faraday shiver, rich and sated and lovelorn as it always is just after sex, as though Basil already misses Faraday without parting from him. Basil pulls him up and cups his face, hurriedly wiping away the semen going tacky on Faraday’s cheek and in his moustache. Basil’s tongue replaces his fingers, and Faraday opens his eyes, laughing faintly. Basil licks him clean, evidently deciding it works better. He even licks Faraday’s mustache, a sensation that makes Faraday let out an undignified giggle. Basil saves his lips for last, kissing them clean. Faraday kisses him back, soft and slow, tasting the briny salt of their combined release. Basil’s hands cup his jaw and throat, and Faraday grips his wrists in return. Basil pulls back to look him over. “There’s still-- ah, nevermind. You’ve got a gray hair.”

“I haven’t,” Faraday says in mock horror. He’s noticed his mustache going silvery on one side. “Do you think I ought to shave it?”

“Don’t you dare.” Basil kisses him once more, and then lays back, taking Faraday’s spot on their couch. Laying there nude, tan-lines marking the stark contrast between pale torso and golden limbs from his walks in the country summer sun, Basil looks like a young God. He’s as thrilling as he was the first time. Perhaps more. Faraday shrugs his robe off of his shoulders and crawls up Basil’s body to lay with him, their positions reversed from earlier in the evening.

The clock ticks, audible again without blood rushing in his ears. They’ll drowse this way until Faraday begins to shiver under the chill of the ceiling fan, and then Basil will insist they go to bed.

“We haven’t driven along the north shore,” Faraday says. “The one with the country club’s marina.”

“You want to?”

“Why not?”

“It’s a date then.”

“Is it?”

“Mm-hmm. We’ll pack sandwiches.”

“Well that  _ does _ make it a date.” Faraday reaches over to finally ensure his cigarette in the ashtray is put out, and Basil takes his hand when he’s done, twining their fingers together. He’s humming something, and a little chill runs down Faraday’s spine when he recognizes the tune. “I’d thought of it tonight, too,” Faraday says quietly.

Basil smiles and sings the last lyrics of Faraday’s first song request instead of simply humming the notes. His singing voice is unpracticed, and he almost speaks certain words instead of singing them, but there’s that awful sincerity in Basil’s voice again that makes Faraday’s heart jump and tears prick at his eyes. He rubs the corner of one watering eye on Basil’s broad shoulder, kisses him there. Faraday lets the last note of Basil’s serenade fade out without comment, and grips his hand tighter.

**Author's Note:**

> Tunes!  
> [Faraday's request, piano solo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tYbLiqbJZLo)  
> [Faraday's request, with lyrics](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K2LtzHzkh-I)  
> [Faraday's request, my preferred version (:](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VwBngjq-I8s)  
> ~*~  
> [Kylux Spotify Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6YRMYaT5fte0cPWH5UVGW5?si=J3LTK6tkRyqlKb_taM7eHg)


End file.
